


the ties that bind us

by Kirscheberry



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alcohol, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Nostalgia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:15:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24343372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirscheberry/pseuds/Kirscheberry
Summary: Francis and Arthur spend an evening with a bottle of vodka, some well-earned cuddling, and a conversation about how they got here.No plot, just gentle bickering.
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 75





	the ties that bind us

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally a prompt from tumblr, but i ran with it and made it too long because i have no self control. it's too short for how long it took me to finish, but i hope you enjoy it anyways!

The sky had only just gone dark when Arthur heard a rapid knock on his door, urgent against the rhythmic pouring of rain. Returning his broom and dustpan to the closet, he scowled at the prospect of a visitor. The last thing he needed was someone tracking in mud all over his newly-cleaned house.

He momentarily considered ignoring the knock, in hopes that whoever it was would admit defeat and leave him alone. Almost as quickly as he had this thought, however, he decided against it. As prickly as he was, leaving some poor, sorry sap on his doorstep in the midst of this storm was not an option.

The visitor knocked again, and Arthur grumbled.

"Alright, alright!"

Cursing under his breath, he sauntered toward the front door and wrenched it open. _No, I am not interested in your Lord and Savior-_

"Good evening, dear."

Arthur nearly shut the door as quickly as he had opened it. It took all of his willpower to keep the door where it was and force out a greeting.

"Francis," he asked sharply, "what on _earth_ are you doing here?"

"I was in the neighborhood," his visitor explained breathlessly. Long strands of hair were plastered to the sides of his face, and he was looking up at Arthur through glistening eyelashes. "I have something for you."

"What? You-" Without further thought, he lunged forward to grab onto his sodden jacket, pulling him through the doorway and out of the rain. "You're insane! You _own_ umbrellas, I know you do. Stay there, stay there..."

He turned on his heel and disappeared into the low lights of his home. Moments later he returned with a towel, throwing it over Francis's narrow shoulders.

"The nerve of you, dripping all over my house. How-many-centuries old and you can't be bothered to cover yourself up." Like a mother hen, he roughly patted his arms and face. "For God's sake, take off your boots before you ruin my home more than you already have!"

Through the soft cloth, Francis was laughing. "Glad to see you haven't changed since I last saw you."

A familiar scowl made its way onto Arthur's face. "You're a bastard, Francis Bonnefoy."

"Through and through," he agreed with a wink.

As Francis leaned down to remove his soaked boots, Arthur noticed for the first time that he had brought something with him. It was a small white bag, and whatever was in it couldn't have weighed much.

Before he could ask, Francis cleared his throat and held it out for him to take.

"What is this?"

"It's one of Canada's old neckerchiefs, from when he was young. I was cleaning out my storage, I found it, and now I want you to have it."

Arthur reached inside the bag and was met with the texture of rough cloth. The neckerchief was well-worn but somewhat stiff, as if it hadn't been used in a good century or two. Lifting it to his face, he unfolded it and scrutinized the red and white patterns on the square of fabric, realizing that he'd never seen it before. _Matthew must have left it with him when he fell under my control._

"And you didn't return it to him?" he asked with a slight tilt of his head.

Francis waved at him in dismissal. "He wouldn't want it back. God knows I've already sent him too many mementos from his childhood."

Arthur huffed out a humorless laugh, bundling up the neckerchief in his hands and stuffing it into his pocket. "He always did love you better."

"Maybe," he teased, hanging his dripping overcoat on the rack. "Don't feel bad, though, darling. That's how it is with most people, isn't it?"

"Oh, you're a comedian now, are you?" Arthur scoffed, but there was hardly any malice behind it. He lightly punched his chest, just hard enough to grab his attention, then turned to make his way to the kitchen. "Come on, then. I'll get you a drink. I'm still a decent host, so you need to be warmed up."

Francis perked up. "A drink?"

" _Tea,_ you insufferable bastard."

Before he could flip on the kettle, Francis took his hands in his own and stared at him earnestly. "How are you?"

Narrowing his eyes, Arthur pulled away from the touch, but his attention was fully on him now.

"Fine, I guess. What's gotten into you?"

He pursed his lips and gestured to the room around them. "Sparkling clean home, I see. Do you happen to be stressed?"

Arthur _knew_ he knew that he compulsively cleaned when he was at his wit's end. At the moment, that was the case. His fellow nations might argue that he was mostly high-strung and armed with a short temper, but it was currently one of the worse days.

"Yes, but you don't need to hear about that right now." Arthur eyed the liquor cabinet, suddenly yearning for the soft burn in his stomach that came with a proper drink. The prospect of a scorching cup of tea sounded far less favorable than his other option. "Were you...hoping for alcohol?"

He sighed, rubbing his hands together to stave off the cold. "I don't suppose you have any wine."

"Not wine, but I'm sure I've got something. Liquor is liquor, after all." Shuffling towards the cabinet, Arthur chuffed as he realized his stock was comprised of one lonely, unopened bottle of vodka.

"From Russia, with love," he sneered, curling his lip in distaste as he flipped open the latch and retrieved the liquor. "Nonetheless, it's all I've got at the moment."

"Surprisingly."

"Can it, Francis."

In his hands, the bottle felt too heavy - so too did his mind.

"You want to take it straight?"

Francis rolled his eyes. "Come now, Arthur. This isn't a back alley of Moscow, show a little class."

"Fine, then." After choosing two glasses from the cupboard, he fetched juice from the refrigerator and mixed it with the vodka. Holding a glass out to Francis, he gave a slight, sarcastic bow. "For you."

"Thank you, darling."

"Does that ease the taste for your poor, sensitive palette?"

Francis studied the concoction, took a swig, then winced. To his credit, he managed to choke it down. "Christ, Arthur! Put a little less in there next time, my God."

"Gets the job done, doesn't it?" he asked with a flash of his teeth.

Regardless of the act he had put on, Arthur noticed the alcohol's warm rush begin to color his cheeks. With a sigh, he knocked back another sip. "I suppose so."

When he finished pouring his own drink, he raised his glass in a toast. "Just one," he said, "to wind down for the evening."

"Yes," Francis agreed, following the motion and allowing his own glass to clink against Arthur's. "Just one."

* * *

They did not, in fact, have just one.

Arthur didn't know how many they _had_ had. Four? Five? The world was beginning to fuzz around the edges, but if he stood still, he could hold his own.

At least, he thought he could. He didn't remember when they had moved to the sitting room, didn't remember when he lay down on his sofa and propped his feet up on the coffee table. Opposite him, Francis was sprawled out on a recliner, toying with a loose yarn from his sweater.

He watched intently as Francis's grip became less tight around his glass. If his fingers slacked any more, there'd be alcohol and shattered glass all over his newly cleaned floor. Despite the vague, groggy alarm that went off in his head, Arthur couldn't bring himself to say anything. Thinking of the proper words and opening his mouth to speak them would consume far too much energy.

Francis's grasp tightened again, saving his floor from disaster.

He glanced up at his host. "What were we talking about again?"

Arthur grumbled before he was snapped out of his reverie. "Who knows?" he murmured, rubbing his eyes.

_You're sober. Sober, you old bastard, get it together._

Francis seemed satisfied with that answer, so he shut his eyes and leaned back. Somehow, his face seemed narrower and sadder. More ancient. Arthur remembered, in that moment, how nostalgic he tended to become once the alcohol truly got to his head. He braced himself for the emotional blathering that was sure to come.

"Do you feel guilty sometimes?" And there it was.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "About what?"

"About..." His voice softened so it was hardly a whisper. "About how we raised our boys."

He shrugged. "No. Not really."

Francis hummed thoughtfully, setting his glass down on the table beside him.

"Come and sit with me."

"No. I'm already sitting with you."

"Oh, you know what I mean. I promise I won't tell anybody."

Arthur stared at him for a second longer before he rose to his feet. Francis's eyes sparkled in delight, then shifted to bewilderment as Arthur retrieved his drink and turned away.

"I'm getting more alcohol."

The laughter that sounded behind him rung out like bells, and he scolded himself internally for thinking that way. "Could I have some more, too, dearest?"

"If you stop calling me dearest," he said, "then yes."

When he returned and held out the glass out to Francis, his hand shot out and snatched his wrist. Arthur pulled, and the grasp did not slacken.

"Sit with me," he pleaded, his dark eyes glinting even brighter.

Arthur swallowed. Maybe to be close to someone was what he needed to get through the night - even if that someone was a fool with no sense of when to let up.

The recliner was wide enough for Arthur to squeeze his way beside his companion, and once he was there, he tried not to think about how embarrassing he must look.

 _It doesn't matter,_ he reminded himself. _You won't remember this, and neither will he._

He felt something brighten in his chest when Francis slung an arm around his shoulders to pull him against himself. All of him was warm, because of the alcohol blush and the wool of his sweater and whatever it was they had held between themselves all these years. For a moment, Arthur shut his eyes and let himself be lulled by it.

"Do you really not think about your sons anymore?" was whispered into his hair.

Feeling incredibly sluggish, Arthur mustered all his strength and forced out a response. "Of course I think about them. Maybe just not in the same way you do."

Francis nodded, but he knew he wasn't satisfied with that answer.

Tentatively, he reached to take Francis's hand in his own. "They're fine. They turned out okay, they're doing well for themselves." Despite himself, Arthur chuckled. "One even has manners! Fancy that." He didn't respond, so Arthur lowered his voice, trying to sound sympathetic. "I think we did alright."

"We never should have kept them apart. They need each other."

"And we didn't," he pointed out. "No matter how we felt about each other, they got to be around one another."

There was a long pause as Arthur watched the other man try to focus hard enough to string together complete sentences.

"I've been wondering about how things could have been different." Francis closed his eyes and tilted his head back, looking incredibly tired. That was a common occurrence, Arthur thought idly. He almost never looked quite as youthful as he did even a century ago. It wasn't the wrinkles or stiff joints that came with age, no; instead it was a mind full of memories and eyes glinting with regret. "Maybe human Francis could have done better."

 _Dramatic fool_ , he thought fondly. "Listen to me: that life doesn't exist. A human Francis and his human sons aren't real. Only _this_ is real." Arthur reclined so that their faces were near. He settled against his shoulder and raised a hand to brush his wispy hair out of his eyes.

"Your issue is this, dear heart," he murmured, not unkindly, against his cheek. "You cling to a life you cannot have. No matter the wanting, no matter the wishing. What's done is done."

"But there's so much more I _could've_ done!"

Arthur recoiled at the genuine distress in his voice. In a further effort to comfort him, he settled back against his shoulder and wrapped an arm around his middle. In the haze of drink, affection was easier, and he was happy as long as he didn't have to hold himself up.

"Think about this, then. They didn't have our childhood." He felt more than he heard Francis hum with consideration. Then he thought, briefly, of the older days, of simpler ways. "They never had to scavenge for a meal, we were always there to feed them. They weren't wild like us, we had houses built for them. They were far, far away from Europe and all its squabbles." _What on Earth am I talking about? You're drunk, now, for sure._

"Many of which were our fault," Francis put forth hopelessly.

Arthur took a deep breath. Okay, perhaps the old times weren't quite as simple as he recalled; perhaps he just preferred to remember them that way.

"You're right, then, you argumentative wretch," he said, but it was more teasing than he would have liked to admit. "But that's all done and dusted now."

They sat in silence for Arthur didn't know how long. The breathing beside him evened out, and he might have thought Francis had fallen asleep, if it weren't for his next sentence; it was spoken so gingerly that he wouldn't have heard it if they weren't so close.

"If we were different, if the circumstances were different...I think you'd have made a wonderful father."

The words were softspoken and choked, as if they were a challenge to get out. Discouraged by the implications that his confession had entailed, Arthur removed his cheek from his woolen shoulder and nestled back against the upholstery. He withdrew his hand from Francis's waist and did not speak for a long while.

He didn't point out that he already _had_ his chance to be a father, and he had failed. Shame welled up in his chest, followed by a burst of rage, but he forced it away. Arthur didn't know if he just didn't want to think about his shortcomings when it came to raising the men he saw as his sons, or if he was too inebriated to do so at all.

"I don't regret it," was the response he decided on. "Any of it. Our nationhood. Our boys. I don't regret it, and neither should you."

Francis fixed him with an odd gaze, as if there were centuries worth of things he wanted to say. Arthur clenched his eyes shut in an attempt to quell the rush of affection that rose in his chest. The room was spinning, and not only because of the effects of alcohol.

Then Francis laughed a rather sad laugh. "Oh, what am I saying? I'm not sober enough to be talking about this kind of thing at the moment." With a grunt, he untangled himself from Arthur and stood, smoothing out his sweater. He took a sip from his drink, then held out his arms.

"Dance with me." He was unsteady on his feet, especially considering how gracefully he usually carried himself. "You still have records, don't you?"

There was not a single bone in Arthur's body that wanted to _dance_ , of all things. Really, all he wanted was his bed and complete darkness so he wouldn't have to think about how dizzy he was. "It's late. I need to go to sleep. You need to leave."

"And where would I go?"

Arthur knew he was caught. He wouldn't throw him back out in the rain, not now. Not after he had lain on his chest, not after they had shared drink. Sighing, he managed to clamber up onto his own two feet.

"You've had too much," he chastised, prying the glass from his hands. He swished the remaining liquid around, then shot the rest back himself. "See, now look. You've made a hypocrite out of me."

"We're old men, Arthur. I'd say we've earned the right to be a little hypocritical now and again."

"I can't dance with you, Francis," he murmured. "I'm drunk. Hell, _you're_ drunk."

"So we will dance drunk...drunk-dance. We will drunk-dance, yes."

Arthur couldn't stifle the laugh that bubbled in his chest. His shoulders shaking, he leaned forward to press his face into Francis's sweater. Nothing made sense except the velvet covering his senses and the warm breath against his ear.

"I love you."

The words sent such a thrill through his veins that they nearly hurt to hear. After the jolt of emotion came the disheartening pang of realization - the realization that this could not be.

"No, you don't," Arthur sighed. "You can't. You know how it is." He wanted to pull away, but Francis's grasp on him was too firm, too sure of himself. "You start to say things like that, it gets worse."

"We can be better."

"Don't get all sentimental on me now, old fool," he said, as much to himself as to Francis. He turned his head and gazed out the window, fixating on a faraway tree that was being tossed around in the storm winds. The distance worsened the fogginess in his mind, but he couldn't look away. There were disagreeable men in the world; Francis was, from time to time, one of them. Now, he was warm and steady, and though they were in his house, he knew he felt safer now than he had an hour or two earlier.

Arthur forced the thought away. He didn't need to be _protected_ , not like some poor, wretched satellite state. _He_ was the protector.

He was the British Empire, by God.

With a jerk, he realized they were swaying. It wasn't a dance, certainly not the kind of dance Francis would want. It didn't matter, not to him. The days of grand displays, of medal-heavy uniforms and gracious ballrooms were almost entirely gone. Arthur didn't know if he'd miss them, and he certainly didn't know if they were even worth missing.

He ran his fingers through his companion's hair, and he noticed it was still slightly damp from his time in the rain. Gently, he tugged him closer so that Francis's forehead was against his neck, and in a rare show of affection, pressed a kiss to his temple.

After that, they did not say anything else. Arthur threw the glasses into his sink and locked the vodka back into the alcohol cabinet. Silently, he nudged Francis's shoulder in an invitation to follow him to sleep.

His bedroom was pitch dark and the covers heavy, but as he languidly outstretched an arm to find extra warmth in his bed partner, he realized Canada's neckerchief remained bundled in his pocket, worn and torn and a reminder of what he loved most.


End file.
